


when i am king you shall be too

by thesilverwitch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cinderella Elements, M/M, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s like dealing with a child,” Rakitić said as he turned around. Behind his back, Marc mimicked his exasperated expression, mouthing the words in silent bitterness. He made Bartra on the other side of the room burst into laughter and earned them both another glare from Rakitić. “Children!” he exclaimed. “Children everywhere! Here I was thinking this was the court of München Gladbach and turns out it’s actually a day care.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. la valse de l'amour

His suit didn't fit him properly. It bunched in his elbows and snagged at his armpits as if whoever made it had used a monkey for a model. If that wasn’t enough, it had the ugliest pattern embedded in the fabric, these velvety swirls that would look better on a clown’s costume. And the bowtie—the goddamn bowtie was too small. How was he expected to breathe, much less walk in this outfit?

“For mercy’s sake.” Ter Stegen pulled at the silk strap with his index and thumb, willing it to loosen. “This damn thing is on too tight.”

“Stop that,” Rakitić told him, batting his hand away. “That bowtie is on perfectly and you’re going to ruin it if you keep messing with it.”

“I’m choking,” Marc complained. He glared at Rakitić, who glared back before shaking his head and sighing.

“It’s like dealing with a child,” he said as he turned around. Behind his back, Marc mimicked his exasperated expression, mouthing the words in silent bitterness. He made Bartra on the other side of the room burst into laughter and earned them both another glare from Rakitić. “Children!” he exclaimed. “Children everywhere! Here I was thinking this was the court of München Gladbach and turns out it’s actually a day care.”

“Your metaphors are beautiful. Did you ever consider being a poet or did you always dream of being a Pain Representative?” Marc asked, feeling more like himself already. Bickering with Rakitić was as familiar to him as speaking in stiff, formal words to stiff, formal people. It settled him. It was his version of an anchor on the bottom of the seafloor, making sure he didn't float away by accident.

“Pain Representative from PR. Wow. Brilliant. Did you come up with that yourself or did you Google it?” Rakitić asked, a smirk tilting the corners of his mouth.

“All my jokes are originals,” Marc told him. “House of ter Stegen trademarked.”

“And you joked about me being a poet. What good is a poet when your highness is such a wonderful comedian? Now that would make good headlines. ‘Crown Prince of München Gladbach: A True Jokes- _ter_ ’. I can already picture it.” Rakitić grinned, too proud of himself to hide it.

Marc shook his head. From the other side of the room, where he was stuffing his face with pancakes, Bartra said, “Six out of ten.”

Rakitić whirled around to face him. “A _six_?”

“Six point five at most,” Bartra finished.

“All right, well, you’re both delusional idiots so I’m ignoring you from now on,” Rakitić said, pushing Bartra away from the small buffet laid out on the ornate dining table beneath the window.

“Hey! That’s the crown prince of München Gladbach and one of his closest friends you’re talking about.”

Bartra’s statement would probably have a lot more impact had it come from someone whose mouth wasn’t currently full of pancakes. As it was, the effect was rather lost due to the spitting and the overall incomprehensible tone of the words.

“Close your mouth while you eat, Bartra, and you!” Rakitić waved a finger at Marc. “Stop messing with your bowtie. This is a big night for your whole family, not just you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How silly of me to think that the ridiculous ball being thrown tonight so I can find a wife was about _me_ , when in fact it’s just about the goddamn royal family. How could I have made such a stupid mistake is the question we’re all wondering, is it not? It’s not like I matter. I’m just here to wear jackets that don’t fit and this demented bowtie.”

Marc tugged at the blue strip of fabric until it came loose. He threw the bowtie on the floor. He was throwing a temper tantrum, he knew it, but he felt like tonight, of all nights, he was allowed to act like a child, at least until the party started. He walked away before Rakitić could reply, moving towards his closet so he could pick a jacket that actually fit and didn’t make him feel like more of an ass than he already did.

He would go with one of his more formal jackets, the kind with lots of golden embellishments and space for some of his medals. He knew already from a few off-hand comments from his mother that people were going all out for this party, as the chance to impress the Crown Prince of München Gladbach was not one to be missed. It made Marc uncomfortable as well as annoyed. He wasn’t a piece of meat, up on the hook for people to grab. 

Rakitić and Bartra followed Marc into the closet. The former because it was his job to make sure his Royal Highness made it to the ball presentable and entirely in one piece. The latter because he was a pain in the ass. Both because they were Marc’s best friends.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. I was just trying to say that this is nothing but a big party for everyone to show off their fancy clothes. It’s an outdated tradition. No one actually expects you to pick a wife from the ladies presented at the party,” Rakitić said.

“Tell that to the press and all the people who will only talk to me from now on about my future spouse, which just so happens to be all the people I talk to.” Marc sighed. The situation had already been bad before, with the ball being brought up at least once a day in conversation, but after tonight it would be all everyone talked to him about.

“How awful it must be to be loved by countless people and the subject of their attention,” Bartra said. Marc bit his lower lip and Bartra laughed. “You’ll live, Marc. You’ve made it alright thus far.”

And that he had. Marc resisted the urge to sigh again as he checked his reflection in his floor-length mirror. Bartra was right, of course. Not that Marc would ever admit it to the pancake-loving disaster.

The life of Prince Marc-André ter Stegen of the Royal House of ter Stegen, rulers of München Gladbach since the seventeenth century, was a life most people dreamed of. He was young, smart, and the most handsome crown prince in Europe according to Forbes magazine. And he was happy with his title and job, but that didn’t stop him from wishing court life wasn’t so heavily led by the ‘this is how we’ve always done things, so this is how we’ll continue to do them’ pragmatism. 

The Grand Ball was a tradition as old as München Gladbach itself that one no one was willing to abdicate. The party had been hosted by the royal family for every heir to the throne after their twenty-second birthday. In the olden days, only nobility were invited and the heir apparent would spend all night dancing with the eligible suitors, who in turn did everything they could to stand out. After the ball, the heir would pick someone for a spouse and announce it to the people when they saw fit. Sometimes they already had someone in mind and the ball was nothing more than a formality, but for most of them it was the same as it was for Marc — terrifying and frustrating, to be so young and expected to pick a life-long partner from a crowd of virtual strangers.

Even if no one expected an announcement from him based on the party, it was only a matter of time before he was expected to pick someone in earnest and it all started tonight.

“Come on, it’s time,” Rakitić said, pulling Marc in for a quick hug before he let him go.

“And remember, if worst comes to worst, you can always jump out the window and make a run for it,” Bartra told him. He wrapped an arm around Marc’s shoulder, preventing him from running away.

“Thanks,” Marc replied, dry as a bone. “What I would do without your great advice is a question I don’t want to answer.”

Bartra patted him on the back. “I know, bro. I know.”

He was led by Rakitić through the hallways reserved for the royal family, away from the crowd gathering at the front. They were all waiting for him. Waiting to see him come down the marble staircase in the ancient ballroom. Marc met Iniesta, his dearest mother and father’s PR manager, when they reached the private waiting room before the hall.

“Everyone is already out there waiting for you.” Iniesta said as he inspected Marc’s body. “You changed outfits,” he concluded.

“The jacket didn’t fit me right,” he replied, checking himself in a mirror one last time before he made his grand entrance. Wouldn’t do any good for the crown prince to have something in his teeth, would it?

Iniesta shrugged. Stuff like Marc’s outfit didn’t seem to hold any value in the grand scheme of business for the House of ter Stegen’s head of PR. As long as Marc didn’t pull a Prince Ramos out of nowhere and forgo clothes, it was all good in Iniesta’s opinion.

“Remember, you’re dancing with the princesses first, then the duchesses, and finally the ladies and whoever else you fancy. The first dance—“

“—is the most important one. I know, Andrés. I’m not an idiot.”

Iniesta smiled, not unkindly. “I know you know, but I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t make sure anyway. Shall we go?”

“Might as well get this show on the road,” Marc agreed. He straightened the lapels of his jacket, and resisted the urge to run his fingers through his blonde hair, knowing that doing so would only mess it up. 

“You’ll do fine,” Iniesta told him. Marc grimaced. Just ‘fine’ wasn’t all that reassuring.

The last time the royal family of München Gladbach threw a ball for the throne heir was over twenty years ago when Marc’s mother, then the crown princess, had reached the dreaded age.

Over the years, his mother had told him about the ball numerous times. She already knew Marc’s father, a duke from Denmark, fairly well and she had, in her own words, a little crush. That evening he was the first to ask for her hand in a dance and throughout the night, even as they danced with other people, their eyes were focused solely on one another. 

It was love. Love and fairytales and an unexpected source of anxiety for Marc, who had no crushes on anyone and wouldn’t know who to choose for the first dance even if you paid him.

Press at the ball was limited to a few chosen reporters, but that didn’t stop everyone and their mothers from pulling out their phones as Marc stepped through the main doors and walked into room. Flashes flashed, people whispered, and Marc thought of nothing but his feet as he looked into the crowd and tried not to trip.

Women from all over the world were presented to him one by one. Their escorts talked in big, formal words and the girls smiled, not too wide, not too shy. They were all beautiful, but none of them caught Marc’s eye. Most were people he’d only ever heard of, although some he already knew. He was friends with the Lady Daniela of Holland, one of the few who talked to him cheerfully and without restraint. Probably because she’d gone to the same university as Marc for six months and had seen him in far too many embarrassing states, all Bartra’s fault, obviously.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep,” Rakitić whispered to him after Sophie from Denmark stepped away.

“I’m bored out of my mind,” Marc confessed. He’d stopped registering names and faces a long time ago. When the time came to make conversation, he would have to rely on Rakitić and Iniesta whispering their names into his ears. A great start to a life-long relationship if he ever saw one.

“We’re almost done,” Rakitić promised and he was right. After meeting the ladies of Catalunya and the Basque country the process was concluded.

Marc’s mother gave a speech, beautifully articulated and well-constructed. Marc said a few thank you words, definitely not as articulated or well-constructed. The band began to play a soft tune to drown out the cacophony of conversations filling the room.

“Lady Daniela is very pretty,” Bartra said as they watched the party from the upstairs balcony. He was munching on a plate of appetizers. How he’d got it was a mystery considering all the food was downstairs, where Marc was expected to be in just a few minutes.

“She has a boyfriend, an American surfer,” Marc told him.

Bartra shrugged. “So? You were the one who said you wouldn’t be picking a wife from anyone here. A dance can a dance and nothing more.”

It was true, but they both knew that wouldn’t be the case, not for him, not for the crown prince.

Marc’s gaze travelled the room, looking past nameless faces and not searching for anyone until he found them just the same.

In a room where everyone had put on their best and most expensive outfits, the man stood out from the crowd nonetheless. His suit was a deep burgundy color and his undershirt was black, as dark as it got. His hair was styled with just the right amount of gel, cut short on the sides and pushed to the side and back. He had a darker skin tone and he wasn’t all that tall, although his suit still fit him like a glove.

He was, quite possibly, the most handsome person Marc had ever seen.

The fact that he was a man didn’t come as a surprise, although the list of better scenarios where they could have met by far and wide exceeded the list of worse ones. 

Marc’s eyes roamed the stranger’s body before he realized the stranger was staring back at him. Their eyes met and it wasn’t love, it wasn’t fairytales, but to Marc, it seemed quite close.

His feet moved him of their own accord. He heard Rakitić say something, but he wasn’t truly listening and whatever the other man said was lost to him. People parted for him as if they were the red sea and Marc walked, his eyes never leaving the other man’s. His thoughts raced from everything to nothing.

This was such a bad way to come out. If any of his friends had realized what he was doing in time to stop him, they would have many words on how this was possibly the worst way ever to come out. Marc should stop walking. He should turn to someone else and pretend he was walking towards them. He should do everything but keep walking towards this stranger and say, “Hello, would you like to dance?”

The man gasped. His eyebrows flew to his hairline. Surprise was written all over his face. Surprise and pleasure. “If you’re sure,” he said, grinning by the end of his words.

Marc wasn’t, but with this, he doubted he would ever be.

“Would you like to lead?” Marc asked, realizing only then that he had no idea what the protocol was for dancing with people of the same gender in a formal ball.

“I would have no idea where to start,” the man confessed, still smiling at Marc, who couldn’t help but smile back.

“Me neither. I guess we’ll just figure it out as we go.”

Marc took the man’s hand and led him to the middle of the room, his instinct kicking in. As they took position, with Marc leading, the background music disappeared, substituted with a louder tune. Marc accidentally made eye contact with his mother and father, both of whom had shocked looks on their faces, before he looked back into the stranger’s eyes again and began to dance.

It was a lot less awkward than Marc thought it would be. The other man followed Marc’s lead with ease, smiling the whole time in a calmly amused way.

“Are you going to twirl me?” he asked as they spun around the room. Marc faltered a step and the other man’s grin widened. His hands moved, quick and smart, the one in Marc’s hand slipped to the small of his back. In less than a second, he was the one leading the dance, and Marc was the following him. “I hope that wasn’t inappropriate, but I figured after you asked me to dance, there isn’t much we can do tonight that is inappropriate.”

“That… is true actually,” Marc admitted. “But if you twirl me I’m going to trip and we’ll both fall.”

The other man flashed him a toothy smile full of genuine joy. “Would you kick me if I tried anyway?” the man asked.

Marc stared, transfixed, until he literally shook himself out of it, and closed his eyes for a second to group himself. “Go for it,” he said. It was like the rabbit hole. Once you fell, it was slip and slide all the way down.

The man twirled him and Marc twirled with as much grace as you could expect from someone who had never been twirled before. He found that he didn’t hate being led. For once in his life, he found it reassuring to have someone tell him what to do. Or, to be more precise, he found it reassuring to have this man tell him what to do with no ulterior motives, no reason other than wanting to see him twirl.

If his mother heard, she would never let him forget it.

When the music ended they were met with silence, momentous and large, stretching all the way across the room until someone started clapping. Soon everyone else followed the example. Some people even cheered. Marc suspected his friends to be at the heart of both movements.

Before he knew it, the music had started again and someone else had taken his hand. It was another man. He had a mustache, sweaty hands, and a wide, wide smile, like finding out that Marc fancied men was the golden goose he’d hunted for all his life. Marc’s eyes searched for his first dance partner. He saw him dancing with someone else, a lady Marc didn’t recognize with a long, flowing red gown. His eyes weren’t focused on her, though.

The music built in crescendo and power. The man with the mustache tried to twirl him and Marc used the opportunity to escape his grasp. He walked across the room and grabbed the other man’s arm.

“Come with me,” he asked. He knew he was asking for too much. This whole night was far too much, but he couldn’t resist asking for more. He was under a spell and until it was broken, he had no choice but to follow his heart and let it lead him blind and vulnerable and full of hope.

“Yes,” the man replied, giving Marc’s hand a squeeze before he pulled it away and entwined their fingers. 

They ran away while everyone danced and talked, past the glass doors and into the palace’s gardens, the biggest in all of North Rhine. “I know an alcove that’s hidden away from everything else. I think only one of the gardeners knows about it.”

“A secret garden,” the man concluded, grinning as he followed Marc deeper and deeper into the palace’s courtyard.

“Pretty much,” Marc told him.

“What other secret places are there? Secret hallways? Secret rooms?” the man gave a sharp, exaggerated gasp. “Secret dungeons?”

Marc laughed. “There are no dungeons in the palace of München Gladbach.”

“But there’s dungeons in other palaces?”

“Well, it’s a very big world out there,” Marc said, smiling.

“That it is.” The man gave Marc’s hand another squeeze.

They had reached Marc’s secret alcove, hidden behind a lanky statue of Prince Harold XIII. They had to walk through a few bushes, but it was worth it for the sight that lay ahead. A perfect little garden, with tall grass and wild flowers blooming everywhere. Covering the ground were the thick branches of a tree probably older than the palace itself and tied to the fattest branch of them all, with rope that had seen better days, was a wooden swing, simple and still fully in use.

“Please.” Marc gave a small curtesy. “Be my guest.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The man let go of Marc’s hand and immediately he missed its warmth and weight, the ineffable measure of comfort it had given him. 

Hidden in the depths of the royal garden, it was as if the rest of the world had disappeared. Night spread towards infinity and Marc breathed without any weight in his chest. It was only them and the stars.

The man looked at the tree above them. “Think we can climb that?”

“Think that would be foolish,” Marc replied. His words would have had meaning had he not, as he spoke, walked towards the lowest branch and began to pull himself up.

The other man laughed and followed suit. It truly was foolish, to climb a tree in the dead of night while they could barely see one another, much less the single branch that held them up. Still they climbed, laughing with every step. 

Marc had a flashback to many years before, when he’d been nothing but a child with very few in the way of worries. He’d loved to climb trees back then, right until he slipped on a thick oak tree and broke his leg on the fall.

“Don’t break a leg,” he whispered to the other man.

“If this were a play you would have just given me years of bad luck.”

“Then let’s be happy this isn’t a play, shall we?”

The other man laughed. A hand stroked Marc’s back, pinching his waist before it left, its warmth disappearing so fast it was as if it had never been there. 

“As you wish, your highness.”

Marc paused, staring at the man’s back as he continued climbing up. The words were a bucket of cold water thrown over his head, a bitter reminder of who he was and what he was doing. Who he was with. 

As if there was ever a universe where Marc would be allowed to forget.

“Are you coming?” the man asked. He sat on a branch big enough for two and he had his hand outstretched towards Marc, waiting for him to take it.

His smile was happy and true and heartfelt. Marc had seen enough fake ones in one short lifetime to be able to tell them all apart.

“Yes,” he replied. This time, he was as sure of his answer as he would ever be of anything. He took the man’s hand and sat in front of him, so close so their feet brushed against one another’s. 

“Can I ask you something?” the man said.

Years of instruction made Marc hesitate before he said, “Yes, of course.”

“Do you do this often? Take men for a dance, treat them to the night of their lives and then bring them to a secret garden?” the man looked him in the eyes as he spoke, full of fiery determination and only the briefest hint of fear.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Marc confessed. “I’ve never even danced with a man before and certainly not in front of everyone I know.”

“Oh,” the man said. He didn’t seem to know what else to say, so Marc used the opportunity to turn around the conversation.

“And you?” 

“I don’t have a secret garden, but I have danced with men before,” he said.

Marc nodded. He’d began to figure as such. He’d initially thought the man was shocked when Marc asked him to dance because they were both men, but he now had a feeling he’d been shocked that Marc asked _him_.

“Who are you?” 

The man shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Doesn’t it? I just came out in front of everyone I know and I don’t even know your name,” Marc laughed, shaking his head at himself. He felt the pressure build up in his chest as he started to panic.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” The man grabbed Marc’s hands and scooted forward in the branch until there was only an inch of space between us. “I meant after tonight you’ll find someone who you deserve, a prince or a duke or some other guy. Someone classy who you should be with. Someone who won’t have to return their suit to the store tomorrow because the price tag is out of their budget.”

“But why? After dancing with you, I don’t think any of the normal rules still apply to me. Unless you don’t want it. To be with me, I mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Marc squeezed the man’s hand. “You didn’t say much of anything,” he said, looking at him through his lashes.

The man laughed and stared up at the sky, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’ve been wondering all night if you’ll kiss me at some point, or if you just plan on courting me until the sun rises,” he said. 

Marc hid his surprise as best as he could with a pair of lips pressed to his.

Sparks didn’t go off and stars didn’t move across the sky just for them, but it was close enough. If Marc thought the man’s presence was intoxicating, it was nothing when compared to what kissing him felt like. They both closed their eyes and moved closer, finding it impossible to leave any space between them. The man’s lips were soft and warm and confident and Marc knew he’d fallen far and deep into the rabbit hole.

They paused to take a breath and that was when the spell was broken, at least for one of them.

“Marc!” someone shouted. “Marc, where the fuck are you?” Rakitić then, and likely Bartra and Iniesta, if the commotion they were making was anything to be judged.

“I need to go,” the man said. Before Marc had the chance to say anything, he was climbing down the tree, jumping from branch to branch with grace.

“Wait! Wait!” Marc shouted.

“I had the loveliest night. Seriously, this was the best and I loved every minute and I really don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t, please,” Marc asked. He didn’t care that he sounded desperate. He didn’t care for anything but making the man stay.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. My friends are waiting for me and we have to go. They’ll get in trouble.”

“They won’t, please—“

The man kissed him, drowning out Marc’s complaints. “Thank you for everything, your highness. You will make a wonderful king one day,” he said. Then, he ran.

Marc raced after him, but he bumped into Rakitić and Bartra outside the secret garden and the man was fast, faster than he had any right to be. “I need to go after him. He’s leaving,” Marc told his friends.

“What you need is to go back to the party. I’ll find him,” Rakitić said, “but you need to go back to the party. The people have began to talk.”

“Fuck the people,” Marc said, not his best moment, he’d later admit.

Rakitić cringed. His hands were like steel bars around Marc’s arms. “Party, you, _go_. I’ll find him, Marc.”

And even though his heart told him not to, Marc went back to the party to face the music, the crowd, and, worst of all, his family.

He would see the man again or so he hoped.


	2. searching the kingdom

Whispers followed him as he entered the great hall. People pretended not to stare, but they weren’t too good at it. Lights flashed.  Bartra’s death glare stopped at least two guests from approaching Marc.

“What are they saying?” Marc asked. He and Bartra hung back on the upper balcony, away from people’s prying eyes. In the dead-center of the ball room, Marc’s mother and father swayed gracefully from side to side. They looked at no one but each other, probably to avoid any awkward conversations with people wanting to know what was going on.

“Many things,” was Bartra’s unhelpful reply. He shrugged when Marc turned to stare at him. “That this was your way of coming out of the closet and that you planned all this.” A pause. “Did you?” 

Marc stared at his friend. His shoulders held an uncharacteristic hunch and his mouth a bitter twist. He was two steps away from Marc, which were two steps more than usual. 

“I didn’t plan any of this. You would have been the first I would tell if I had any such idea,” Marc confessed, wanting to set things straight between them.

Bartra was his oldest and closest friend. He was the son of Catalunya’s ambassador in München Gladbach and he and Marc had been friends ever since they were kids and Bartra dared him to a race through the palace’s gardens that ended in them both falling into a pond. Together, they were Marc Squared and if Marc had planned _any_ of this, of all people, Batra would have known about it.

Bartra stared at him for a few seconds before he grinned. “Damn straight I would. I’m your best friend.”

Marc nodded. It was true and furthermore—

“Your rock. Your one and only. The Marky to your Marc—”

“Is this your way of hitting on me now that you know I’m into men?” Marc asked, feeling like the conversation was getting out of topic.

“This is my way of saying you can talk to me, bro. I’ve got your back.”

“I know that,” Marc replied. He looked at the crowd below, the reporters on the other side of the room taking pictures of him and Bartra talking, and mom and dad subtly making their way across the floor towards them. “I mean it. I really didn’t plan for any of this to happen.”

“Ah, well, what can you do when cupid hits you with his arrow?” Bartra put an arm around Marc’s shoulder and pulled him close as he gazed at the dance floor with Marc. “Besides, I’ve always known you’re into men. You get rather touch-y when you’re drunk.”

Marc froze. What the hell? How did he not know this? This was the type of thing he should have been informed of the first time he did it so that he could avoid alcohol for the rest of his life.

“Really?” he asked. Bartra held a straight face for a couple of seconds before he burst into laughter.

“Nah, I’m just messing with you. You’re as stoic when you’re drunk as you are when you’re sober. You just stare a lot at guys when you’ve drank a few. It’s like your usual creepy Marc stare but even more intense. Also, you’ve never had a girlfriend for more than a month. It wasn’t difficult to do the math.”

“Oh,” Marc said. Bartra patted him on the back.

“I want details later, by the way. For now, I leave with you with dearest mother and father.”

“While you go stuff your face in expensive champagne and shrimp?” 

Bartra grinned. “Someone has to!”

His mother and father, the Queen and King of München Gladbach, were smiling when they reached Marc’s side, but it was the smile they wore during events, neither real nor fake.

“Marc,” is mother said to him, “aren’t you going to ask your mother for a dance?”

“Of course,” he replied. For a brief second, he remembered the conversation he’d had with his mystery man and wondered what were the odds of the palace having a secret dungeon that his parents never told him about.

They walked to the dance floor with her left arm in his right. She held her head high and prideful and he imitated her, drawing strength from her own as he has done all his life.

“Who is he?” she asked, her lips barely moving.

“I don’t know. I saw him across the dance floor and it was like I—“ Marc hesitated. “It was like—“

“You were drawn to him,” is mother finished for him. 

“Yes,” Marc admitted.

For the first time that night, Marc’s mother smiled. She stroked the short hairs on the back of his neck and gave his arm a squeeze. She looked exactly as she should: a Queen who knew all there was to be known. Marc had always envied his mother’s confidence, resilience and, most of all, her perceptiveness.

“It was love,” she said.

“No,” he replied, looking down and shaking his head. He’d never believed in love at first sight and he wasn’t about to start now.

“No?” his mother asked. She was teasing him, but that didn’t stop his face from heating up like a hot panini. 

“I don’t know what it was. I just knew I liked him. I liked talking to him. I would like to see him again,” he said, finally putting his thoughts and actions into solid words. If dancing with the other man had been a draft, Marc’s statement was the final version, printed and ready to be shipped.

“Where is he?” 

“I don’t know. He left without explaining why. Rakitić is looking for him.”

“He’ll find him. That man and Iniesta are like dogs with bones once they have a plan.”

“Well, that’s why you hired them.” Marc smiled.

“Someone has to keep you and your father in line. Speaking of which, you should go dance with him. He’s a surprisingly good dancer.”

“Surprisingly,” Marc repeated.

“You’ve seen him play football.” They took a step away from each other. “You inherited your skills from me, darling.” 

Marc smiled again. It was true. In many ways, he was far more alike his mother than his father, who had grown up in northern Europe. His education had been a weird one, a mix of the boring, posh subjects like table manners and world politics and stuff like wall climbing and archery. When Marc was young, his father tried to take Marc on camping trips in the winter to “build character” but Marc had never taken to them like his father did. Still, they weren’t strangers to each other. Not at all. When Marc offered him his hand, his father, the king of München Gladbach, took it with a loud laugh. 

Dancing with his father was nothing like dancing with the other man or his mother. His father, while not terrible, had neither the grace nor the coordination required for them to dance without stumbling into each other every few steps. Still, they took it in stride, with Marc’s father twirling without any prompting and bursting into laughter every time Marc nearly fell. 

“You’ve always been like this, you know?” his father asked, making Marc look up. He’d been staring at their feet, trying to make sure his didn’t get stamped on. “You’ve always carved your own path. Sure, you listen to what your mother and I have to say and you often follow our advice, but you’ve never obeyed us, so to say. You think and then you make a decision. As a parent, there’s no greater joy than seeing your child make their own path in the world.”

Marc’s hot panini face grew hot enough to fuel a rocket to the moon. “Thank you,” he said.

His mom and dad had always been sincere and warm to him, a contrast with the image of the distant royalty people typically envisioned. In a bizarre stroke of luck, it was Marc, the twenty-first century prince, who was more reserved and, he would be the first to admit it, cold.

Well, used to anyway. He couldn’t imagine anyone saying he was private person after the events of tonight. He was even dancing the waltz with the kingand risking his wellbeing in the process.

“All that matters to us is that you’re happy.”

“I know,” Marc said.

“And if anyone has anything rude to say, we’ll defend you, of course. The house of ter Stegen has always stood for equality.”

“Thank you.”

“Besides, I haven’t fought anyone in ages. I miss it. A good fist fight. Me and your uncle used to fight all the time. Nearly ripped off my ear once. Good times. It’s good for the heart, you know? Gets your blood flowing.”

Marc paused. His dad had always been a bit of a jokester, but this didn’t feel like a joke. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how human anatomy works,” he said. His father waved him off and sent him to dance with someone else. Right. Marc would have to warn Iniesta later.

For the rest of the night, Marc twirled and was twirled. The people he danced with congratulated him on what he’d done, praising him for being one of the few royal members, and the first big one, to admit he was anything but straight. Marc thanked them all, even if he didn’t feel like he’d done anything special or great, just thoughtless. It was better to have people saying this than not say anything at all.

He still didn’t know what the repercussions to his action would be. München Gladbach was a small country of less than half a million people and the Royal Family still held a lot of power in the country’s leadership. Marc was more than a figurehead to the people, he was their future leader, and as such many things were expected from him. The times were changing, but were they changing so much that they would accommodate a king that loved another man? Crazier things had happened, but that didn’t make the future any easier to predict.

There was also the subject of children to keep in mind. Marc wasn’t actually gay. He’d had relationships with women. They hadn’t been anything like the bond he shared with his mysterious prince, but they hadn’t been fake either. Marc would have to explain himself soon, lest the rumors start flowing indiscriminately. 

First, however, he would have to wait for Rakitić to find the other man and hope that tonight had meant something for both of them and not just him.

: :

“I’ve got bad news and more bad news.”

Marc groaned. Why was his life like this?

“No good news?” he asked. He already knew what the answer would be, but he wanted those few extra seconds to prepare himself.

“I’m afraid not, your highness.”

Marc groaned again. Rakitić only ever used Marc’s formal title when he was being a sarcastic dickhead or when things were truly bad.

“Start with the not so bad news?” Marc asked, feeling small and helpless and far too tired for someone so young. Curse Taylor Swift and her feel-good music which did nothing to detail how exhausting being twenty-two could be.

"The not-so-bad news is that we still don’t have anything on your mysterious prince, even though his face is still being plastered on every newspaper as news reports on the ball refuse to die out. Against all odds, not having any new information for over two weeks has done little to appease people’s interest. The good part in all of that is that most people are still supportive of you and” —Rakitić rolled his eyes when he saw Marc wave for him to skip this bit. He’d heard it plenty of times already— “are as curious about your ‘prince’ as we are.”

“And his name?” 

“Nothing,” Rakitić sighed.

Marc threw himself on his bed, not caring how dramatic he looked. Bartra wasn’t around to judge, in his own home for once, and Marc paid Rakitić’s salary so he would damn well keep quiet.

“How can this be?” Marc said, rubbing his hands over his face.

After the night of the Grand Ball, Marc’s mystery prince, as the media—and Marc’s family, friends, and his own subconscious—had dubbed him, vanished. Simply and purely vanished. They’d manage to connect him to two other men at the party through the security footage, but none of that told them who they were.

Marc was a breath’s width away from calling the European secret service and asking them to track down the three men, privacy rights be damned.

It would be ridiculous, of course, and an abuse of his powers, but what else was he supposed to do? München Gladbach was a small country and it was obvious their resources weren’t enough.

The only other option was issuing a public announcement. Tell the whole world that he was searching for the mystery prince too and please, would he mind giving Marc his number?

But that, too, was too much. Twenty-first century or not, everyone still remembered what the Grand Ball was for. If Marc made an announcement like that, so close to the date, people would connect the dots whether the dots were there or not. It would be no less than a flat-out marriage proposal and while the idea didn’t sound so bad in Marc’s head, he was sure the other man would be petrified to hear it.

“What’s the other bad piece of news?” Rakitić inhaled, loudly, and paused. Marc sat up. “Ivan?”

“There is talk, your highness, that you are no longer suitable to take the throne. It is nothing, but the more time passes, the more the rumors grow. People have began to whisper your cousin should replace you as the next in line.”

Marc saw red.

“ _Bernd_? As _king_? You have got to be kidding me. That man wouldn’t know the difference between oxfords and brogues if you hit him with the damn shoes.”

“Well—“ Rakitić tried to say, but he didn’t get a chance to go far before Marc interrupted him again.

“And who’s saying that? I bet it’s him. I bet he has a fake twitter account that he uses to spread false information about me. What a dickhead.”

“There… is really no evidence of that,” Rakitić said. He looked a little lost for words, while Marc was just getting started.

“Yeah, but I just _know_ it’s him _.”_

Marc paced the small stretch of carpet in front of his bedroom window. Now that Bernd goddamn Leno was in the match, it was only a matter of time before people began to take his side against Marc. The man might be a farce, a poor excuse for a prince and completely unfit for the München Gladbach throne, but he was smart. Marc wouldn’t deny him that.

“Didn’t you two used to be friends?” Rakitić asked. Marc sneered. Rakitić wasn’t there for the accident, and since the royal family did everything in their power to keep it away from the press, it was normal that he didn’t know about it.

He and Bernd had been friends alright, back when Marc was a kid and didn’t know any better. Then they went on a camping trip with dad and uncle Rob, and Bernd left Marc to freeze in a ditch in a ditch after Marc slipped and broke his ankle. By the time he came back, all of Marc’s fingers were purple from the cold. He said he’d gotten ‘lost’ but Marc, still inches away from death, didn’t quite believe him.

Words were exchanged and accusations were thrown. It was the last time they had a civil conversation.

Over the years, Marc has, to the best of his abilities, forgiven his cousin and stopped caring for Bernd. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the other man, who showed up in the media every six months after making yet another callous comment about Marc.

To top it all off, the two were so physically identical that some people claimed they were twins, saying that Bernd’s identity had been ‘faked’ by the royal family so that questions to the line of throne weren’t put forward. Marc sneered again. As if that baboon could ever be his twin.

“‘Used to’ are the key words to keep in mind,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

“I’m afraid not, your highness.”

Marc pointed at the other man. “Call me that again and I’m throwing you to the lions.”

Rakitić smiled. “You wouldn’t dare. Bartra might. Where is that, bastard, by the way? I haven’t seen him eating anyone’s food in a while.”

“He’s at his apartment packing his bags. He’s going to Catalunya to see his family and friends.”

“You should go with him. They’re your friends too, aren’t they?” Rakitić smiled again. It was a little unnerving.

“Yes, but I can’t leave at a time like this. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for answers.”

Not to mention, Marc didn’t feel like spending the week with his friends from university and Bartra’s family. They were all lovely people, but they were also loud and intrusive and Marc wasn’t ready for the million and one questions they were bound to ask about his new ‘love’. 

Also, Piqué would be there. Marc liked Piqué. He would even go as far as to say he missed hanging out with the other man. Piqué was _fun_ in a way few others could be. Nevertheless, love or not, Marc was not ready to deal with that giant loaf of bread.

“Answers you don’t have. Come on, it will do you good. I’ll buy you a plane ticket. In fact, consider it already done,” Rakitić said.

Marc glared at his friend. He was Marc’s subordinate, which meant he should obey Marc, not that mentioning that ever did any good.

“And, as your subordinate, I’m going you a plane ticket in first class for Barcelona so you can go take your mind off the fact that you met the love of your life, came out as bi or gay or whatever else to the world at large, and then promptly lost the love of your life, all in one night.”

“Your way with words” —Marc flopped face down on his bed— “is really quite the something.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Of course, your highness.”

“And book yourself a plane ticket too. In economy!” Marc sat up and looked Rakitić in the eye. “If I have to spend a week with Sergi, Jordi, Piqué and Bartra’s family then you’re coming along too.”

“Shouldn’t someone stay here? To deal with the Bernd situation?”

Marc squinted at Rakitić until his eyes were barely visible. “You’re so full of shit,” he said at last.

There wasn’t anything Rakitić could do until Marc made up his mind, and they both knew Marc wasn’t going to make up his mind until they found the man from the ball, and heaven’s only knew when they were doing that.

“That’s a no, then?”

“That’s definitely a ‘no’. Iniesta can deal with Bernd.” Marc sneered again. He found it impossible to say his cousin’s name without sneering. It was a pathological condition. 

“Well, alright,” Rakitić agreed, not looking so happy now. 

He had met Marc’s old college buddies once, when they all came to München Gladbach on vacation for a week. They’d behaved well until the very last night, when Sergi, somehow, ended up on the roof of the palace, as naked as he was the day he came to the earth, singing _La vie en rose_ at the top of his lungs in such poor french it sounded like he was making a completely mockery of the language.

Rakitić had been Marc’s assistant and head of PR for less than six months back then, which made the situation all the more traumatic. Hilarious, too, from everyone else’s perspective, but definitely traumatic for the man who spent all night making phone calls to make sure none of the pictures hit the web.

“Don’t worry. If you die of embarrassment, I’ll make sure you get a proper memorial,” Marc informed him, making his friend roll his eyes.

“Thanks. I’ll book us a flight for tonight. You should start packing.” Marc nodded and lied down on the bed again. “Oh, and by the way, I noticed how you didn’t correct me earlier.”

“What?” Marc asked.

“When I said you’d lost the ‘love of your life’. You didn’t correct me.” Rakitić’s smug ass grin would haunt Marc’s nightmares for years.

“You are not helping,” Marc said after a few seconds of mentally debating how to reply. He wasn’t sure who he was still trying to fool, when everyone, including himself, was so convinced the impossible had happened: the prince of München Gladbach had fallen in love at first.

“On the contrary, helping you is my only job,” Rakitić said, finally taking his departure from Marc’s quarters.

Marc quietly sighed to himself. These past two weeks had been a turmoil for him. Checking the news every day and seeing his face plastered everywhere. Having people from all over the world calling, asking to speak to the ‘gay prince’. Marc wasn’t the first royal to come out as anything but straight to the world, but he sure was the first to do it in such a dramatic way.

If he just spoke to the press, it’d be easier. It’d settle people’s doubts and let them know he would still be taking the throne, the job he had been preparing for all his life. The question on having children was the hardest to answer, but in today’s day and age, there were many ways around it. There would be backlash, but there was always backlash.

But first Marc needed to see the other man. He needed to make sure that night had been real, because the more time passed, the more he began to believe it had all been a dream. The walk through the gardens, the climb up the old oak tree and the kiss. All just a figment of his imagination.

The thought was as bad as his worst nightmares.

And if that came to be the truth, it would change everything. 

A speech had already been prepared. Marc had read the first few lines before he threw away the piece of paper. It was a purely fictional testimony from his behalf, a tale about the first dance that painted it as a political statement in defense of LGBT+ rights. After telling people that, Marc would say _no_ , he wasn’t gay. _Yes_ , he would still marry a woman, a duchess or a princess, and birth as many kids as they wanted.

That man? _An old friend_. Gay? _No, maybe, who knew. It didn’t matter,_ he would say. The other man was gone. He disappeared in a cloud of dust and mystery and three weeks later, he was still nowhere to be seen.

People would say Marc was lying. They’d mention that night, how genuine it felt, how it was love fairytales and more. They’d point out how Marc looked while they dance and Marc—well, he’d seen the videos himself. He’d seen him and the other man dancing. They smiled through the whole thing. Their eyes shined. Marc could admit it: he didn’t recall the last time he’d looked so happy.

And still, he’d tell everyone, again and again, until they stopped asking, until he believed the words himself.

_No, I don’t love him, I never did. It didn’t matter. He doesn’t matter._

Marc sighed. So he’d finally made up his mind.

He would either find the other man and come forward to the press or he’d lie through his teeth.

It seemed almost easy when he put it like that.


	3. pumpkins and mice

Rakitić, Marc had learned after working with the man for over a year, was a shit flier.

“Ivan, I swear to all you hold sacred if you do not let go of the death grip you have on my hand _I will throw you off this plane_.”

Marc tried to dislodge Rakitić with his free hand, but it was no use. He’d sooner lose circulation than lose Rakitić’s hold on him. 

“I can’t. I’m dying,” Rakitić said in a strangled voice.

“Oh god, you’re the absolute worst,” Marc groaned. “Get it together, cutting off my blood flow won’t help you.”

“I’m sorry,” Rakitić said, right before he hunched over and put his head between his knees. His left hand continued to grip Marc’s right like his life depended on it.

Marc didn’t dare ask if he was about to throw up, fearing the mere mention of vomit would send the other man into a frenzy. 

Since they booked their tickets at the last minute, he’d ended up with Rakitić in coach class while Bartra, the lucky dickhead, was in first class drinking chocolate champagne, whatever that was. Just as Marc began to consider hitting Rakitić in the head and putting him to sleep, his friend gave out the most pitiful moan Marc had ever heard.

It was so sad Marc didn’t have it in him to take a picture of his friend and text it to Bartra. The image would have to stay forever in his head.

Marc sighed and settled in to watch _Spy_  with Melissa McCarthy on the minuscule in-flight screen.

They arrived late at night after most of the shops and restaurants in the airport had already closed. The arrivals area was nearly empty, save for the three guys holding a huge banner with the words ‘KING OF MÜNCHEN GLADBACH AND THE OTHER ONE’ printed in solid black.

Dickheads.

“Why am I the other one?” Bartra asked as he gave Sergi a crushing hug.

“Oh, you’re not included here. We were talking about Rakitić. As if we’d make a sign for you,” Piqué said.

Marc pretended to flinch. “So cold,” he said, grinning as he greeted his friends.

“Ice cold,” Piqué replied because some things never changed and the fact that that blunt humor was Marc and Piqué’s only form of communication with one another was one of them.

After hugs were traded, backs were patted, and at least ten selfies were taken, Sergi took Bartra to Bartra’s home and Piqué, with Jordi tagging along, took Marc and Rakitić to their hotel, all the while offering them his place for them to stay.

“So you can put my hand in a bowl of water while I sleep? No, thanks. The hotel is fine,” said Marc.

“That was one time!” Piqué yelled while Jordi nearly choked in laughter. As if the mental image of Marc with wet pants and murder on his eyes was _that_ funny.

“Wait? You really did that?” Rakitić asked. His Spanish wasn’t the best, but it’d gotten ever since he started working for Marc.

“He did and he didn’t even feel guilty about it afterwards.” Marc glared at the back of Piqué’s head from the backseat. 

“You have to admit, it was kind of funny. The face you made when you found me was hilarious.”

“I know. You used it on the Christmas card you sent me last year,” Marc grumbled. “I hope you didn’t use it on every Christmas card you sent.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I wanted to, but Shaki didn’t let me.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Marc replied.

Marc had met Piqué’s girlfriend a few times in their last year of uni. She was smart, talented, beautiful and had a great sense of humor. Marc had actually asked her once what she was doing with Piqué. It was not the right question to ask the girlfriend of one of your best friends, but he was drunk at their graduation party and he couldn’t hold back his tongue.

She’d said it was because of his eyes, his sense of humor and the fact that he saw her for what she was.

That and his huge dick.

Now _that_ was information Marc could have done without, even if it explained a lot about Piqué’s demure.

“Bartra already told me he’s spending tomorrow with his family, but the two of you will be having lunch with us tomorrow at this Brazilian restaurant Shaki discovered the other day. They serve the best caipirinhas,” Piqué told them.

Marc looked at Rakitić, who shrugged. The two of them hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to figure out what they wanted to do in Barcelona. There were a few places from his Uni days that Marc wanted to visit, and his friend would likely want to see most of the tourist destinations, but they were otherwise free.

“Sure,” Marc replied. He could do with a good meal with friends. Even if it meant—

“And you can use the opportunity to tell us all about your new loverboy,” Jordi said, flashing Marc a grin that looked far too smug on him.

“Can we not? I didn’t come here to have my love life dissected.”

“Oh, so it’s love!” Piqué turned around to take a picture of Marc’s face with his phone, making everyone in the car lunge forward and tell him to look at the goddamn road. “Alright, alright. Sorry. I just wanted a new picture for my Christmas’ cards.”

“I’ve got some HD pictures of Marc and his mysterious prince dancing that you can use if you’d like,” Rakitić said.

Marc gasped. “Traitor.”

“So the rumors are true?” Jordi asked. “You really don’t know who he is? I thought you were just keeping it a secret. Piqué was really mad about it for a week.”

“Hey!” Piqué complained.

“What?” Jordi asked. “You were. You kept going on and on about the values of friendship and how you couldn’t believe Marc would keep something like this from us.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Marc said as he laughed. He could picture it perfectly. Piqué, walking in a circle as he went on a large rant about the morality of men and how the choices people make define them. Jordi, sipping on his beer quietly as he played Angry Birds on his phone. 

“Well, you could have said something!” Piqué argued.

“What was there to say? You know as much as I do about him. And as to what happened… I haven’t figured out how to explain that either,” Marc sighed.

“Of all the people to fall in love at first sight, I would have put you last on the list,” Jordi told him before he paused in thought and looked out the car window. After a few seconds, he asked, “When they make a movie about your life, do you think you could get Leonardo DiCaprio to play me? Because that would be really cool.”

“If Jordi is getting DiCaprio then I want the guy who plays Captain America,” Piqué immediately added.

“ _No one_ is making a movie about my life, not in my lifetime,” Marc said.

“That’s alright. You can just write in your will that you want the next generation's DiCaprio to play me.”

Marc groaned. This was going to be a long week.

: : 

Marc woke up to the sound of someone knocking on his door at eight in the goddamn morning.

“I will end you,” was the first thing Marc said after he opened the door.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Rakitić said, pushing Marc out the way as he entered the room. “It’s time to go sightseeing.”

Marc rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the webs of sleep. “I thought you said you didn’t really wanna go sightseeing.”

“No, I said I didn’t know what I wanted to see, but luckily for you my body’s natural alarm clock woke me up with the sunrise and now—” Rakitić’s flashed a handful of paper sheets in front of Marc, “—I know.

“Well.” Marc paused. He was far to sleep-addled for this conversation. “Okay.” Another pause. He needed to put on clothes. And shower. And eat, probably. “I’ll meet you downstairs?” he said, only it came out as a question, which would be embarrassing if Marc was awake enough to care.

“Sure. Twenty minutes.” Rakitić said. Marc nodded. He’d do anything to get out of this conversation and be back in bed as quickly as possible.

In twenty-two minutes time, Marc was downstairs, wearing sunglasses and a simple gray t-shirt and shorts. He wasn’t _that_ well-known over Europe that he was in high risk of being recognized, but it was common knowledge that he’d studied in Catalunya during in his Uni years and it never hurt to be prepared.

They ate in relative peace, with Rakitić telling him all the places he wanted to visit and Marc pretending to listen.

They went to see the Mirador de Colom and the sea. Marc let Rakitić make most of the conversation for the both of them, not too preoccupied with filling any vacant silences when, truth be told, he had nothing to say.

It didn’t take Marc too long to realize his friend was taking as many pictures of the scenery as he was of him. 

“What,” Marc bit out.

“Nothing. I just want to document the moment you turned into a moody, thirteen-year-old,” Rakitić said. “Honestly, Marc. Promise me you won’t dye your hair black and get a fringe. Emo wouldn’t flatter you.”

Marc glared at him until he shut up. He wasn’t _emo_ , for crying out loud. He was just… quiet. Introspective. He wasn’t even thinking about anything in specific, certainly not a man with brown hair and caramel eyes and the best smile, and definitely not the fact that said man had abandoned him at the stroke of midnight and disappeared in a cloud of mystery and chaos.

No, no. Certainly not. Marc wasn’t thinking about that and his pathetic, stupid heart.

“Love really does change a man,” Rakitić loudly whispered as he took another picture of Marc’s profile.

“I better look handsome as gold in those pictures or we’re never talking again,” Marc told him, his eyes refusing to leave the sea.

Rakitić scoffed. “As if I’d ever catch you at a bad angle.”

They walked around for another hour until it was time for lunch with the rest of their friends.

When Piqué had mentioned lunch with him and Shaki, Marc had assumed that their lunch party would, naturally, consist of four people.

He had, of course, assumed wrong.

Jordi was invited and so was Sergi, as well as their respective girlfriends. At some point Bartra’s plans changed, so he came too, alongside his brother and cousin. Piqué invited Messi and Masche, who Marc didn’t even know were in town, and obviously Busquets was coming. One of Piqué’s work colleagues who knew Sergi was there as well, and there were one or two children. Whose, Marc didn’t know.

They took over half of the restaurant and they were all loud and full of laughter and if he was honest, Marc cherished every minute of it. There, he was not the crown prince of München Gladbach. He was not the gay prince, as some of the media had dubbed him. He wasn’t even ter Stegen. He was just Marc or Mats, depending on whether the person who called him met him or Bartra first.

Nobody asked him about his mysterious prince, although everyone kept giving him curious glances when they thought he wasn’t looking and, more than once, Marc caught them whispering while looking at him. It didn’t make him feel too comfortable, but he’d dealt with worse. In any case, he was too distracted by his friends’ antics to pay attention to those side conversations.

It was a fun meal with friends. A good meal. A _normal_ meal, right until they started serving desserts.

Since their group was so large, whenever the dishes were brought up, at least two waiters would carry them to make sure everyone got served around the same time.

Marc wasn’t paying much attention, not bothered with how long his food took or if he got the wrong dish. He’d be happy as long as he got to eat his whole meal without someone (Piqué) stealing food from his plate.

His obliviousness, however, wasn’t shared by the rest of the party.

Marc was kicked underneath the table and punched in the arm at the exact same time by two different people, making him wince in pain and pull away so quickly he nearly fell off his chair.

“What the fuck,” he said as he gave Rakitić and Bartra identical looks of heartbreak and betrayal. He needed to find better friends who didn’t gang up on him all the time.

“That’s one of the guys,” Rakitić told him. “The ones who were with your mysterious prince at the party.”

Marc’s head whipped around so fast it could have snapped his neck.

It was him, alright. Tall and stick thin. He was balancing four chocolate mousses, two plates of cake and a bowl of ice cream in his hands. His shirt was untucked, his hair all over the place, and he looked a little frazzled and out-of-breath as if he had run a half marathon between the kitchen and the dining room.

Marc got up. His eyes didn’t leave the other man’s, out of fear he’d disappear again and, with him, his chances of Marc finding the mysterious prince.

“Uh,” the other man said when he noticed Marc and the rest of the table were staring at him. “Well. This is random.”

That was one way to put it, that was for sure.

“Is he here?” Marc asked, as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

“Who?” the other man asked, lying through his teeth. His eyes darted from place to place, not staying on Marc for more than a second. 

Marc took a step forward. He lowered his voice. He didn’t want everyone in the dinner to hear him, although he was sure that enough people would for the story to hit all the major news channels of München Gladbach in a matter of hours.

“I’ve been looking for him everywhere. I just wanna see him, please, and talk to him.”

The man bit his bottom lip. His hands shook, ever so slightly. Marc took a few step forwards so he could take some of the plates off him, his good manners kicking in by instinct.

The other man let him, gasping in surprise low enough that only Marc could have heard him. “He’s in the back,” he whispered. “But don’t tell him I said that or he’ll punch me.”

Marc nodded. He wanted to ask _why_ , the word close to tumbling out of his mouth, but he was scared that he would ruin everything, so he swallowed his words and moved forward, stepping into the kitchen without little thought to what he’d do or say when he finally—

Saw him. 

He was by one of the stoves, cooking various types of meat in separate grills and pans. He wore black slacks in a loose cut and a white chef shirt that had seen better days, nothing like his outfit back at the ball. His face was plastered with sweat from the heat, but he still looked composed, like that was where he belonged. 

Also, he was as gorgeous as Marc remembered him.

The noise level in the kitchen died out as people, one by one at first and then in clutters as people began to whisper, noticed Marc standing right in front of the dining room door.

It seemed almost fate or maybe magic that Marc’s mysterious prince was to last to catch him there, staring at him like a love-struck fool, which was exactly what he was. The mysterious prince—chef seemed more appropriate now, but something told Marc that no, prince was the word, prince would always be the word—stared at Marc.

The silence that filled the room was louder than a heavy metal concert. It drowned the world in sudden influx, like a wave that took you by surprise while you were staring at the sea, not paying attention to your surroundings until the cold water crashed against your feet with such force that it either reeled you into the ocean or shoved you back onto the sand.

Marc didn’t know which it’d be for him. The reel or the shove. Two options, simple enough, but there was no way to know to which side the odds leaned.

Still, Marc tried. “Hey,” he said, casual, so very casual, as casual as can be.

“Hello,” the other man replied. He gave Marc an awkward little wave. He looked as unsure and uncomfortable as Marc, which said a lot about the two of them.

They kept staring at each other until someone from the other side of the kitchen yelled, “Oi!” and said something else in rapid Portuguese that Marc’s limited language skills didn’t capture. Something something about doing something and not being a little shit. 

At least Marc’s knowledge of swear words in other languages was still on point.

Marc opened his mouth to say… words, definitely, and he would have known which as soon as they started trickling out, had he not been surprised by his mysterious prince when the other man surged forward, grabbed his hand and said, “Not here.”

He walked Marc through the kitchen so that they could leave by the back door into an alley behind the restaurant. “My apartment is right around the corner. We can go there.”

“Okay,” Marc replied. He wasn’t even listening. He would have agreed to fly to China or go on a scavenger hunt in the heart of Brazil if this man asked.

The mysterious prince turned around, just for a second, and grinned at him. 

Marc grinned back.

To the moon. He’d fly to the moon for this man.

They took the stairs. Well, the other man did, and Marc followed him without thinking. His apartment was on the third floor and it was a bit chaotic. Marc had been in dirtier places during his college days, but he’d forgotten what it was like to live in a limited space with two or three mates who would rather make a slingshot with their underwear than clean it (again, Piqué).

“Sorry about the mess and the…” The other man looked around the room in a lost panic. “Everything.” He picked up a pair of pants and threw them to the side. “Neymar always leaves his clothes everywhere and Dani would rather lose a leg than ‘waste’ twenty minutes of his life vacuuming and I…” the man stopped running around and looked at Marc for the first time since they’d grinned at each other in the alley behind the restaurant. “I’m not so good with cleaning myself.”

“It’s fine,” Marc told him. “I don’t care. Really. Just—“ Marc couldn’t stop staring at him. He was so gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that belonged in magazine covers and runway shows. The kind of gorgeous that was almost a dream. “Don’t care about any of that.”

The other man nodded, quick and sure and so wide-eyed it was almost comical. “Good. That’s good.”

Marc nodded too. The other man was still holding his hand and he seemed not to have any intentions of letting go soon, which was just as well in Marc’s opinion. They kept staring at each other. It was amazing and more than little ridiculous, how the world just melted away every time their eyes locked. 

“Did Neymar or Dani call you? I made them promise not to, but I never know, with them. They’re always scheming against me, the assholes.”

Marc shook his head. He didn’t even know who Neymar or Dani were. “No, no. No one called. I just came to visit some friends and we happened to visit the restaurant you worked in and I saw one of the guys you were with at the ball.” And what an absurd coincidence that seemed now. One in a million or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence at all. Maybe it was just the reel of the sea.

“Neymar,” the man informed him. “He was the one that got us in.”

Marc nodded as his brain attempted to fit the pieces together.

“And then I saw you and I— I missed you,” Marc said, silently cringing.

Great. Smooth move, ter Stegen, confessing you missed a man you shared one dance and one kiss with over three weeks ago, right before said man _ran away_ from you. Granted, it had been a pretty important dance and kiss, but still.

“I missed you, too,” the man said. His gaze flickered from Marc’s eyes to his lips. Marc imitated him without meaning to, looking down at his jawline, strong and sharp. He had begun to grow a beard since Marc last saw him. It looked good on him, but so would growing a bird’s nest in his hair or tattooing a tear beneath one of his eyes. Some people look good regardless of what they do.

“Then why did you—“ Marc swallowed the words. Too soon. He couldn’t risk the other man running away again. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he settled for in the end.

“You have?” the man asked and he looked so shocked like the idea of Marc looking for him was mind-boggling.

Maybe it was, now that Marc thought about it. It wasn’t as if Marc had actually told anyone outside close family and friends he was looking for him, and here in Catalunya, news about the royal house of München Gladbach probably didn’t raise a lot of attention.

There was a chance this man didn’t even know about all the speculation and rumors their dance had started.

“Yes, but there wasn’t a lot to go on from. No one knew you and you didn’t even tell me your name,” Marc said. His words were a little crass, but his tone was more out of breath than anything else. He should stop staring at the other man’s lips at some point if they were to have a real conversation.

“It’s Rafa. Or Rafinha. Or Rafael,” the other m— _Rafa_ said. He sounded as out of breath as Marc. “Whichever you prefer.”

“Rafa. That’s great. I’m Marc.”

“I know that,” Rafa replied.

They were still staring at each other, but somehow during their conversation they had gotten closer to one another so that they were now standing only a few centimeters apart. To kiss him, all Marc had to do was lean down, but before he did that he had to know. “Why did you leave?”

“I wasn’t even meant to be there,” Rafa whispered. “Neymar met a guy who could get us in the day before the ball and we figured, what the hell, what better way to end a semester studying abroad than to attend the party of a lifetime? We had to leave early because our plane left that night. I didn’t think I’d get to say ‘hello’ to you, much less dance with you.”

“I don’t think anyone predicted that,” Marc replied. He was only listening to about half of the words that came out of Rafa’s mouth. He caught their general tone and that tone said there would be time to discuss details later.

“I thought you’d find someone else to dance with,” Rafa told him.

“I didn’t. I really, really didn’t.” Not even embarrassing himself could stop the confession from spilling out of Marc’s mouth. “I’ve been absolutely pathetic these past weeks, trying to find you. I _moped_.”

“I’m sorry,” Rafa said, but he didn’t look sorry at all, not with the way his smile curved upwards, content and mischievous. 

They were quite close now and only getting closer and closer until finally, Marc decided to fall into the universe’s hands, and kissed Rafa, pulling him in by the back of his neck with one slightly unsteady hand.

Their second kiss was similar to their first in a lot of ways. It was intoxicating and warm and easy. They adapted to one another without needing to think about it and each passing second took them further into the sea.

Of course, there were differences as well, the biggest one being that they’d been in a public garden, at risk of being found out by a hundred different people, during their first kiss, and now they were alone.

Things sort of happened entirely on their own. Rafa started opening the buttons on Marc’s shirt as Marc’s hands somehow found themselves pulling Rafa’s shirt from his slacks and slipping his hands beneath it to stroke his bare back. One thing led to another and before they knew it, Marc was sitting on the couch in the middle of the living room with Rafa on his lap, his knees resting on either side of Marc’s hips, effectively trapping him there.

Not that Marc ever, ever wanted to leave.

Their shirts were discarded, lost, burnt or thrown into a black hole for all Marc cared. He wasn’t aware of anything but Rafa’s tongue inside his mouth, loose and precise and fucking warm. All of Rafa’s body radiated warmth. Rafa was a supernova, a cosmic fusion, the end of the world and the birth of stars and Marc was in love.

“I want to go on a date with you,” he asked between kisses. “A real one. I want to date you, if you’d like.”

“Can you even do that? You’re like, the heir to a throne and I’m a grill chef at a Brazilian restaurant in Barcelona,” Rafa said. His words were doubtful, but his smile was still radiant like he already knew the answer to the question.

“It’s 2015,” Marc said, which wasn’t a real answer, but it was enough. All his life, he was sure that, if he had to, he’d fight the whole world for his right to take the throne of München Gladbach. The picture didn’t change with or without Rafa in it.

“You’re out of your mind,” Rafa whispered as he leaned down to leave a trail of kisses on Marc’s jawline.

“That’s not a no,” Marc said.

“It’s not, yeah,” Rafa replied before he bit down on Marc’s neck. After that, conversation was quickly forgotten.

They could have stayed there for eternity, not even doing anything but making out like horny teenagers and enjoying each other’s presences, if it weren’t for someone suddenly storming in through the front door.

“What the fuck!” Rafa shouted while Marc tried to cover his chest with the dignity of a young maiden from the nineteenth century caught kissing the neighbor’s son.

“I forgot my phone,” said the man, which Marc now knew as Neymar, the one that had found a way for him and his friends to attend the ball. “Also, I wanted to see if you two were fucking on the couch, which you are, which is disgusting. You have a room, Rafael.” 

Rafa gasped and they both stared at Neymar’s retreating form as the man went inside one of the doors on the other side of the room, predictably his bedroom. Marc glanced at his discarded shirt on the floor and wondered if picking it up would be worth it. Probably not. He wouldn’t be able to put it on anyway with Rafa’s hands around his shoulders, and he wasn’t about to shove those away anytime soon.

“As if you haven’t done worse,” Rafa shouted. He whispered a couple of portuguese curse words, which only Marc could hear. Something about shoving a cactus up one’s ass.

“So, has he proposed yet? I told you he would,” Neymar said as he joined them in the living room again.

“Neymar, leave,” Rafa ordered.

“Alright, alright.” Neymar held his hands up in surrender. “I just want you to be careful. Just because a rich, good-looking prince charms his way into your life and dazzles you, it doesn’t mean you have to rush into marriage. Give it a day or two, is my advice.”

“ _Neymar_.” Rafa looked like he was seconds away from picking up something very, very heavy and throwing it at Neymar’s head.

“And don’t forget to use condoms!” Neymar shouted as he ran away. 

There was a moment of silence, in which neither Marc nor Rafa spoke.

“At least he closed the door on his way out,” Marc said after a couple of seconds.

Rafa slumped his head until it rested on Marc’s shoulder and slowly shook it so that Marc could feel his nose grazing his neck. “At least he closed the door,” Rafa repeated after him.

Another moment passed where neither dared to speak. Marc stroked Rafa’s bare back, creating river-like imprints as his nails pressed against the soft skin. “I don’t want to marry,” Marc whispered. “I mean, not right now at least. I meant what I said. I’d like to go on a date with you. I’d like to try.”

“I may not know much about royal life in 2015, but I do know that you’re supposed to be date princesses, or at least high-profile women. Not me,” Rafa laughed.

“I have been known to being a little unorthodox in my ways,” Marc argued. He sounded similar to a child -- petulant and needy, not bothering with being rational if it would get him what he wanted, and what he wanted was this man.

“Alright,” Rafa said after thinking about it for a few seconds. He was looking at Marc as if he’d never seen someone like him before.

“Alright?” Marc checked.

“Alright,” Rafa repeated. “Let’s try to date, Marc-André ter Stegen.”

And that was the story of how Crown Prince Marc-André ter Stegen, later to be King Marc-André ter Stegen, of the Royal House of München Gladbach and all its subsidiary lands, met Prince Consort  Rafael Alcântara do Nascimento, later to be, King Consort Rafael Alcântara ter Stegen, of the  Royal House of München Gladbach and all its subsidiary lands. 


End file.
